Screwed
by SuperSkye
Summary: It felt as though her lungs deflated, and her throat grew, as very little air passed through her mouth. Edging to her door, she saw it was still locked. Locked. Sam was locked in this room, with...


Samantha started up the stairs after her friend set down the phone.  
"Hey, Sam, where ya off to'?" Her friend smiled up at her as the doorbell rang.

Samantha poked her head from around the wall.  
"Just don't bother me alright? And please, if it's possible, don't be too loud," Sam already knew she was asking too much, "you remember last time?"

"Yep! That was like, so hilarious! Did I mention those two cops were hot?" Her friend giggled as she fled to the door, allowing several people inside their townhouse.

Sam shook her head and continued her short travel upstairs. Upon reaching the top, she stretched and headed for her room with a yawn. Darkness enveloped the whole landing, only a small nightlight in the bathroom excused just enough darkness to see where you were going, though still didn't provide much relief.  
Opening her door, she flicked on her light and heard the familiar sound of dance music burst through the speakers downstairs. The doorbell rang again and more voices joined in. Sam stepped into her room and shut the door, locking it slowly.  
The first party Debbie ever had in their shabby town house, a drunken couple burst into her room half nude while groping each other feverishly, hoping to find an empty bed. They were ushered out quite fast. Since then, the lock she bought has saved her bedroom on more than one party occasion.  
Sam smiled to herself as she turned on her desk lamp and turned off the ceiling light.

Sitting down she began to write on nice white, lined paper. Eraser set just by the lamp with a pencil sharpener, and her pencil holder on the opposite end.  
Sam had to put up with a lot of crap. Being a part-time cashier at Tim Horton's and making sure Debbie paid her rent on time is stressful. Yoga, massage therapy, even sleeping didn't help to relieve her stress.  
Since her last boyfriend convinced her to get Xbox, she would often play her collection of games to kill time, a few of her favourites were the halo games. Go figure, they were everyone's favourites a t some point. From there, she began to write stories, a new effective stress reliever where all her emotions can just flood out onto the paper.

The pencil began scribbling down words, making scratching sounds in the semi-total silence of her was scorched and splattered with a multitude of colours for kilometres down the city streets. The humans were putting up a vicious fight. With their other planets fallen, they weren't about to allow Earth to go to hell as well. They focused shooting down two types of aliens; the brutes, and the Elites. Two massive beasts just off to the far right of the humans position, literally shredded the human army. Lanky, bird-like creatures ran to the frontlines as smaller, stockier ones fled from constant bullet fire, screaming their guttural language.

Behind the enemy lines, something large lurked in the shadows. It's large, armoured body shifted through concrete debris like it was merely pebbles in its path, as silent as a stalking predator. This predator wasn't on the aliens side, oh no, this predator was hunting for alien _prey_, and for the aliens blood to be splattered all over charred concrete would be serving the purpose for this predators existence. To kill.

A small squadron of alien creatures, the covenant, had begun gathering and started to form a full out frontal assault. Hunching down the figure changed his weapon choice when suddenly one of them stockier aliens came up from behind.  
Both were stunned at first; however the armoured figures surprise did not last long.

"Demon!" The alien screamed just before its head was crushed and the hissing of methane escaped the broken breathing apparatus.

The small squadron turned to see a seven foot goliath appear from the shadows. Its armour no longer gleamed that golden orange, but instead proudly showed the bright blue blood of its enemies. This golden goliath was known as Nixon. The modern day Spartan.

The Spartans assault rifle coughed and mowed down the smaller aliens, often known as grunts, cannon fodder, annoying runts. There were two of those bird-like aliens, known as jackals though it was the one larger alien he was more concerned about. The elite, wearing the usual blue armour, complete with a very fashionable, sharp, killer energy sword.

The elite growled, obviously pissed that his squadron had just been cut down by this repugnant human. Stepping on the grunts bodies as he slowly circled Nixon, the elite mulled over his next move. Some grunts were still in the throes of dying, though they were no concern to anyone. The jackals contemplated firing, the elite could attack the human and they could accidentally hit their leader, though with their intelligence level, they couldn't figure out that their leader was waiting for them to attack.

Nixon wasn't waiting any longer for anyone. Leaping towards the elite, he grabbed its hand and began to squeeze. The blue elite roared out in pain as a muffled pop was heard followed by a series of small, quick crunches. The elite snapped his head towards Nixon and their helmets collided with a loud _whump_. Nixon stumbled back as the elite dropped its weapon; hand broken and hissing in pain the elite opened its four maw mouth to roar in Nixon's face. While the Jackals had turned tail and fled the Spartan took to advantage to beat down the elites shields and shove the muzzle of his gun down its throat. An explosion of brain fragments and blood exploded from the back of its helmet, and added to the beautifully painted ground.

Nixon paused for a moment as his radar showed two bright red orbs coming towards him. Turning around he expected to see the jackals returning with backup. Well the jackals hadn't returned, but there was certainly backup. Two hunters, large burly aliens with spikes, a massive shield, and a dangerous, hand mounted plasma cannon; lumbered towards him, roaring out and their plasma cannons already charging up.

With silent, calculating movements, Nixon charged into the shadows and ran along a corridor with openings along the side to reveal his enemies to the right.

Plasma, a high-energy concoction of death and pain splashed across a concrete pillar and sprayed debris along with dust across Nixon's armour. Glancing back briefly, Nixon could only see one hunter when suddenly a huge behemoth of a figure came crashing right through one of the pillars only several yards in front of him. Nixon skidded to a halt and changed course. Running into the open he turned in time to see the exposed back of a hunter twin. The one who had successfully thrown itself through solid concrete.

A quick succession of controlled bursts from his assault rifle, and the beast was face down in his own blood.

A howl of pain and sorrow came from the other twin, and a new fiery energy urged the hunter forward, straight towards Nixon.

Nixon stepped back and fired his gun, hoping for a lucky shot, but the hunter was closing the gap between them at a frightening speed. Suddenly the hunter buckled forward and fell to it's knees. Slowly but surely it fell to the ground, an orange mess splattered all over its back.

Sam set her pencil down, as much as she would hate to stop her writing, she had to sleep.

Standing up slowly she stretched her arms and kicked off her socks. Sliding out of her clothes, she put on her typical sleeping attire and crawled into bed. With a snort she looked over to her desk.  
"Man," she stood up and slowly made her way to the desk. Flicking off her desk lamp, she didn't even remember going back to bed; all she could remember was the darkness that had enveloped her senses. Well at least she could still smell, for she could smell the fruit juice on the carpet she had spilled just this morning.

The next morning, Sam groggily opened her eyes to see carpet and one of her shoes under her bed. Sitting up slowly she rubbed away drool from the corner of her mouth and blinked the gunk from her eyes. She remembered writing a bit on a story last night, then getting ready for bed. How did she end up on the floor? Looking around her room, she rubbed her eyes when she found blinking just wasn't enough to clear her vision.

Walking over to her mirror, Sam looked over her thin face, dark brown straggly hair, and bright green eyes. She didn't care too much for her appearance, especially in the morning but at least she was never the type to rely on makeup to morph her face from semi-beautiful to Barbie.

A groan.

It wasn't her stomach, her eyes flicked to the edge of the mirror, whirling around, the form of Nixon, her fictional character laid upon her carpet.

Too shocked to scream, too shocked to say anything. It felt as though her lungs deflated, and her throat grew, as very little air passed through her mouth.

Edging to her door, she saw it was still locked. Locked. Sam was locked in this room, with someone that lived on lined paper approximately ten hours ago.

Sam decided to poke the figure, you know, just to see if it was real. Perhaps she was hallucinating, some pot smoke flew into her room last night and she's high. Yeah that's it, Sam thought, could pot cause hallucinations? Hell, she didn't know, she never smoked it in her life. Oh wait, that's a lie, she did once and she got sick. Then again, how could there be enough smoke to get her high? She couldn't smell it.

Three feet, two feet.

One.

She was right in front of the figure now, he had to be real. Kneeling down she lightly moved his leg. No response. The metal was cold, and dirty. Really dirty.

Sam inhaled deeply, the smell of burnt blood, whatever that smelt like, and rotting corpse caused her to fall back from the retched aroma. She was expecting the brute to jump up and attempt to strangle her, though nothing happened for a good few moments. Another deep breath and Sam got closer, and swallowed her fear. Shaking the large man torso furiously she managed to startle him awake, and found his massive hands around her fine neck. She croaked in surprise, realizing she couldn't breathe.

Thankfully Nixon decided to let go before her neck was snapped. He looked around quickly, taking in his surroundings. Once satisfied enough his polarized lens returned to her, allowing Sam to see her pale face in an orange tint.

"Where am I?" His voice was deep, sounded handsome. Sam wondered what handsome sounded like in a voice, and concluded that Nixon's was a perfect example.


End file.
